Crush (Karen Vail Series)

by Alan Jacobson

  “Right.”

  She squeezed his hand. “So there’s nothing left for us to do but enjoy our time together.”

  “Right again.”

  As they neared their car, the gate at the end of the road was closed. And Javi was by the guard shack reaching for his two-way.

  “Gate is closed, yes sir.”

  “Don’t let anyone in,” the filtered voice of Redmond Brix said. “We’ve found a body buried down here. At least, part of a body. I’m gonna call in CSI. His name’s Matthew Aaron. Let him through when he gets here.”

  “Roger,” Javi said. “Uh, that FBI agent and detective are here. You want me to send them back?”

  There was a long silence. Robby and Vail exchanged a glance.

  Robby was holding Vail’s hand tightly; she was sure he was keeping her from turning around and running back to where they’d come from.

  “Send them back,” Brix’s filtered voice finally said.

  Vail detected a note of dejection in his tone. But it didn’t matter. She was already en route.

  TEN

  When they arrived, the men were ringing the large pit, kneeling and staring at something at the far end. Brix was blocking their view, but judging from his body language, he was not pleased. He was on one knee and his head was bowed. The guy with the camera was snapping away, his flash bursting like lightning in a night sky.

  As Vail moved closer to the hole’s boundary, two of the men stood and moved out of her way. That’s when she saw it: Two dirt-crusted feet were protruding from the edge of the opening, the flesh partially decomposed.

  “Hey,” Vail said to the man with the Nikon. “What are you doing? Why are you taking pictures?”

  “I’m with the Napa Valley Press. I was covering the excavation of the cave. It’s historic. I didn’t think we’d find a—a dead body.”

  Yeah, dipshit. I’m sure no one here expected that. Vail thought of telling him to shove his lens where the light doesn’t shine, but then figured the photos could be useful to their investigation. Besides, she had no right to tell him not to take photos. That was Brix’s job.

  Robby joined Vail and got down on his stomach to get as close a look at the feet as possible. Brix rose and moved back, then wiped at his sweat-pimpled forehead with the back of his leather work glove.

  “Karen,” Robby said. “Come closer. Take a look at this.”

  In the burst of light from the flash, she saw what drew Robby’s attention. The second toenail of the right foot was missing.

  THEY WERE ALL SILENT A MOMENT before Vail said, “Lieutenant, can you get these men out of here?”

  Brix complied without comment, giving head signals to the workers. Toland followed. “I’m gonna have to ask you not to go public with those photos, Randy.”

  The Press photographer chortled as his gaze flicked between Brix and Vail. “We can discuss that later.”

  “Nothing to discuss,” Brix said. “I invited you here as a guest because I thought you’d appreciate the exclusive on the cave. If you want to come back when we finish this thing, you’ll honor my request.”

  Randy gave him a hard look, but nodded.

  Brix extended a hand. “The memory card.”

  Vail could see Randy’s facial muscles contracting as he flipped open the side compartment and withdrew the compact flash card.

  Brix took it from him. “I’ll make sure you get this back.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Randy said, then walked off.

  When he was out of earshot, Vail said, “Well, guess that answers our question. This guy has killed before.”

  Brix’s shoulders were rolled forward and his gloved hands hung at his sides. He spoke without meeting her eyes. “What’s the procedure for bringing the profiling unit on board?”

  “It’s a pretty informal process. If an agency wants help from the BAU, they’d either call the unit and talk with an agent, or contact their local FBI office. Since I’m already here, all you had to do was ask. I’ll call my supervisor for approval. Be a good idea to write me a formal request on letterhead for the file. But that’s all just a red-tape formality. I’m here, and I want to help. Let’s not waste any time.”

  “We’ve got a major crimes task force. Obviously, this is top priority. We’ll start in the morning. I’ve got your number, I’ll text you the info.”

  ELEVEN

  John Wayne Mayfield sat in his idling white Jeep in the parking lot of Dean & Deluca, munching on a veggie sandwich. Country music was pouring from the dash speakers, the vocals pining about hating his job but not having a choice because he needed the money for alimony.

  Mayfield didn’t have the alimony problem, but it made him think of his job, and how he always strived to do it the best he could—but was it too much to ask that he wanted to enjoy himself, too? Sometimes he did, but oftentimes he did not—the reasons were obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was given a task to complete and if he didn’t complete it successfully, he didn’t get paid. Simple as that.

  It was a common dilemma with workers all over the world, he imagined: the desire to do something you enjoyed doing, but still earn a living doing it. In his case, it was not always possible to accomplish both.

  But his hobbies, those were where he was able to feed his hunger, where he satisfied his desires.

  As he bit into his sandwich, he saw a blonde exit the store, a white bag hanging from her hand. Diamond ring on her finger, but no male companion in sight. Was he waiting for her in their car? Mayfield watched her as she traversed the parking lot, passing right in front of his truck. His eyes were riveted to the sway of her hips, the slink of her thighs as they rhythmically moved through space. She stopped at a dark blue Mercedes and got into the passenger seat.

  Mayfield swallowed, then took another bite of his sandwich. All in all, it wasn’t a bad existence. And to be able to live in the area where he lived, in the house that he owned, that had to be factored into the equation. Some people killed for the sport, some killed over drugs, or money, or sex, or anger. Those were largely unfulfilling, without any of the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment he sought when he stalked his victims, and then ended their lives.

  Unfulfilling, but necessary. Some things just had to be done, whether you liked it or not. For John Wayne Mayfield, this was both fulfilling and enjoyable. He crumpled the paper wrapping of his sandwich and shoved his truck into gear.

  There was work to be done.

  TWELVE

  They ate dinner at Angèle, which abutted the recently refurbished Napa River embankment. The food was exquisitely tasteful. But Robby was unusually quiet. Vail sensed he was frustrated that she had pushed so hard to be included in the investigation, and now the task force.

  “I ruined our vacation,” she said over a sip of Duckhorn Merlot.

  Robby put down his fork and sat back. “No, the UNSUB ruined it. Wrong place, wrong time.” He chewed a moment, then added, “But that doesn’t mean you had to pursue it so aggressively.”

  “I had to.”

  “Karen, there are murders all across the country—hell, all across the world—and you can’t be at every crime scene. You can’t draw up a profile on every UNSUB. You can’t help catch every psychosexual offender who’s on the loose.”

  “I know that.”

  He splayed out his large hands. “So then what gives?”

  Vail took another sip of wine. She put it down, studied the glass, then said, “I don’t know. I saw that body, the—well, the behaviors—and my mind switched into work mode. I—this is what I do, and I’ve got very specialized knowledge that can help apprehend this guy before more women are killed. Am I wrong to want to help prevent that?”

  Robby looked to his left, out the window at the Napa River. The sun had set and a blue-orange blush reflected off the water. The lights along the river’s edge began glowing.

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, you have to be allowed to have a life.”

  “Things
would’ve been fine if we hadn’t gone to Silver Ridge. We wouldn’t have heard anything about it and we would’ve gone about our vacation.”

  Robby looked at her. “Are you saying this whole thing is my fault because I hooked you up with my friend to get us those wine-pairing tickets?”

  “Of course not. I’m just saying that maybe this was meant to be. Maybe some higher power put us there at that time, same time as the killer, so we could do our thing and help catch this guy.”

  Robby furrowed his brow. “Wow, you’re getting religious on me. I’m surprised.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it, Robby. But we’re here for a reason. Maybe that reason is to help put this guy away before he kills someone else.”

  The waitress appeared and leaned across the table to clear the used dishes.

  Robby swirled his glass of Patz and Hall Pinot Noir, then lifted it and watched the liquid spin. As it came to rest, he said, “Basically, our vacation is over. You’re now working this case. And that’s fine, I guess. Maybe you can get Gifford to jigger your vacation time so you don’t lose it. You can take another trip when you get back.”

  Vail finished off her wine. “So that means my vacation time won’t correspond with yours because yours is now, and there’s no reason for you to be working this case.”

  “Exactly. So I guess we’ll have to enjoy whatever time we have when you’re not working the case.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. But we’ll make the best of what we do have. Deal?”

  Robby nodded slowly. “Deal.”

  “How about we start with tonight?” she said, leaning forward and planting a soft kiss on his lips.

  THIRTEEN

  Vail and Robby ate breakfast with their B&B mates—plus another couple who’d arrived last night—and after putting down their forks and draining their coffee, were the first to leave. Vail had to be at the task force at 9 a.m., and she didn’t want to be late.

  While en route to the sheriff’s department, Vail thought about asking Robby to call the Vienna police chief to ask permission for him to participate on the task force. But Robby, being a Virginia state law enforcement officer, had no jurisdiction in California. His chief would never go for it: He would say that the locals had plenty of homicide investigators to work the case—and he would be correct. Vail, however, was a different situation. She had a unique skill set the police here didn’t have.

  When they arrived at the sheriff’s department, Robby pulled to the curb by the front of the building. “Call me when you’re done.”

  Vail’s door was open, the car audibly purring. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s Napa.” He held up a Wine Country News magazine. “No shortage of places to explore. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

  VAIL WALKED INTO the conference room used by the Napa County Major Crimes Task Force. Located on the second floor of the sheriff’s department, it was a well-appointed meeting space with a generous oak chair rail lining the walls and numerous gray ergonomic stenographer seats surrounding a sectional faux-marble taupe-and-gray table. A laptop sat in the middle of the table beside a few stacks of printed pages and a plastic container of muffins. County map posters hung beside an expansive pane of one-way glass. A large-format printer sat in the corner beside a wall-sized whiteboard.

  Not surprisingly, Vail was the only woman in the room. All heads swiveled in her direction as she strode to a vacant seat. As she sat down, everyone resumed their conversations. Redmond Brix was standing at the whiteboard chatting with a young male in uniform.

  “You must be Karen Vail.”

  Vail turned to see a man in his late twenties or early thirties, styled hair and thumbs hooked through the loops in his belt . . . wearing polished chestnut boots.

  She extended a hand. “Yeah, that’s me. Don’t tell me I forgot to take off my name tag again.” She smiled sheepishly and feigned a look at her shirt.

  “Sheriff Owens mentioned you’d be here. I’m Scott Fuller. Detective Scott Fuller, Napa County SD.”

  “Sheriff’s a good man. Small world, actually. He took my class on Behavioral Science at the FBI’s National Academy—”

  “I know all about it. I’m enrolled to start the program in a couple months.”

  “I’ll see you back in Virginia, then.”

  “Do you know anyone else on the task force?”

  “Just walked in a minute ago.”

  “Well, then let me do the intros.” He turned, stuck his fingers in his lips and whistled. Everyone turned. “This is Special Agent Karen Vail, from the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit in Quantico,” Fuller said. “She’s here to help us with the wine cave murder.”

  “Glad to meet all of you,” Vail said. “Actually, I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and we’re a few minutes down the road from Quantico, in Aquia. We moved out of Quantico a little over ten years ago. But Scott’s right, I’m here to help. If there’s anything I can contribute, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “That’s Sergeant Ray Lugo, with St. Helena PD,” Fuller said, indicating a Hispanic male as wide in the shoulders as he was in the gut—a refrigerator came to mind.

  Vail nodded acknowledgment.

  “And you already know Detective Lieutenant Brix,” Fuller said. “He’s the Incident Commander for this . . . uh . . .”

  “Incident?”

  Fuller frowned. “For this murder.”

  The door swung open hard and in walked a petite blonde in a tightly cut short-sleeve blouse and professional knee-length skirt. She strode to the front of the room and took a seat near the head of the oval conference table. Every male head followed her movement, and she behaved as if she knew it.

  “And that’s Roxxann Dixon,” Fuller said.

  Dixon tossed a thick binder on the table and looked up at Vail. “And you are?”

  “Karen Vail, FBI.”

  Dixon looked around at the attentive male faces. “And why is the Bureau here?” she asked.

  Vail waited for someone else to answer. Meanwhile, she was sizing up Dixon. Was she being antagonistic because she enjoyed being the only female on the task force, or was she merely the inquisitive, controlling type? Light blue eyes with unusually muscular arms and legs for a female, so she hit the weights regularly, and her short sleeves in the cooler weather meant she liked to let everyone know it. She was either into health and fitness and working out, compensating for something, or she felt she needed the bulk to compete with the men in her department. I can relate to that, Vail thought.

  “Agent Vail is here on my request,” Brix said. “This case has some unusual elements to it and I think she can help. She’s out here on vacation and was . . . in the vicinity when the body was discovered.”

  Dixon nodded slowly. Vail could tell she was doing what Vail had done to her: sizing her up, measuring her potential adversary, determining whether she’d truly be an asset, competition for male attention on the task force, or an extreme annoyance with some political heft and an attitude. I’m probably all of the above.

  “Which agency are you with?” Vail asked.

  “I’m an investigator with the Napa County District Attorney’s office.”

  “I’m actually a profiler with Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Vail said.

  “Oh,” Dixon said.

  ‘Oh?’ What does that mean?

  “Okay,” Brix said, “let’s get started.” He took a step forward and handed Vail a thick card. “Electronic key. The proximity card will give you admittance to the building and restricted areas. Feel free to use it while you’re here, but we’ll need the prox card back when you leave.”

  Vail took it and shoved it into her purse.

  “I’ve sent all of you the email with what we had as of last night,” Brix said, passing a stapled sheaf of papers to Vail. The others had official county binders in front of them with requisite materials fastened and punched. “I’ve got a
few updates, and some pictures of the victim.” He nodded to Fuller, who took a seat at the conference table in front of the laptop.

  Fuller reached around his binder and fingered the touchpad. The screen awoke and displayed photos of the Silver Ridge Estates wine cave interior. Fuller hit a button on a nearby remote. A screen unfurled from the ceiling and the blue light from a projector splashed across it. Fuller pressed a couple of keys and the enlarged image appeared for all to see.

  Brix took the group through the crime scene, describing what they were seeing as a supplement to the email he had sent them. Vail studied the photos. They were no doubt taken a short time after she and Robby had left the Silver Ridge wine cave. “Coroner says both wrists were sliced deeply. She bled out fairly slowly because it was done postmortem. Looks like she was strangled.” He nodded to Fuller, who pressed a button on his remote. The slide changed to a close-up of the woman’s neck. Bruising was evident across the skin. “A knife was found beneath the woman’s lower back. Scott.”